


Black Eyes

by Symmet



Series: New Wounds [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BoyKing!ish Sam, Chuck is God, Demon! Dean - Freeform, Happy end?, Radical Face, ish, lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmet/pseuds/Symmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Sam learned how to destroy souls as Dean learned how to unmake them, and they headed towards each other but farther from themselves, to places that made them wonder if their brother would recognize the monster each had become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics belong to _Black Eyes_ by Radical Face. No copyright infringement intended.

 

_**When you last left me my blood was in a jar** _

_**And you kept it on your mantelpiece** _

* * *

 

Sam would lie down among the carcasses, sometimes, when Ruby wasn’t there, in the wealth of blood that now belonged to him. But it wasn’t a sick ritual or serial killer instinct brought on by the demon blood twisting in his veins.

In many ways, it was actually the opposite. He lay there, the clothes already ruined, listening to his heart beat and the absence of theirs, resisting the urge to feast.

He tested himself for hours, recounting how Dean died, that even if it was the right reasons, that did not make it right, and he was a monster, and demons were monsters, and reminded himself that the first blood he’d tasted was Dean’s.

A warm spray on his face as hounds he couldn’t stop ripped his brother open from the inside. And it still made him shake in the darkness, made him want to wretch, push the ugly blood out of his stomach, out of his body, tainting what Dean had died to protect.

But Dean had thrown his life away on this monster, and a part of Sam knew that if he repented, he’d never see his brother again.

So he did not burn Dean’s clothes and he did not burn Dean with them. He buried his brother where his body could not be found by humanity, already far beyond their reach. And he took the things he could not bear to see buried or abandoned - a necklace, a car - and he kept them for himself until his brother returned, one necklace round his own neck like a noose, one car that waited outside the motel like a cage. One picture of his brother on the mantelpiece of Bobby’s house.

But he wouldn’t let himself be welcome there anymore.  

 

* * *

  _ **I couldn't count on anyone to stand there behind me**_

_**And keep the dogs from dragging me off with them**_

* * *

 

Dean burned black and bright in Hell. Not rage, but desperation, no, that was a lie, there was always rage to him in Hell. He was taunted by the demons, his soul mutilated, but he could not fight them off alone. He was angry, at himself for failing, and Sam for dying. At the souls he destroyed for making bargains they couldn’t keep.

But mostly he was angry at the demons. Before he let go, before he gave in, he lasted thirty years, stood strong and snarled as ferociously as the hounds that had dragged him down, fighting back, always fighting back.

But he didn’t have anyone to hold him up and help him take the hits. He didn’t have Sam to buffer the blows and give him hope he’d never let him reserve for himself. The torment was wound into the coils of his chains, and the chains forced him to the rack. And the rack never ended.

Eternity was a certainty he did not want to remember existed, because he would always forget whose screams he was hearing.

Sometimes they were his. Sometimes they were Alastair’s, gleefully standing over him. Sometimes they were someone else’s, a body bending under the weight of his own, cruel blade. But it seemed like usually they were his own.

Dean became the tortured torturer, and for even heart his blade cut, and every soul his work broke, he thought of Sam, and punished himself for giving in by imagining his brother’s face on those he ruined.  

 

* * *

_**While I slept you crept in and pulled the rug right out from under me** _

_**you stole away and took the parts that kept me functioning** _

* * *

 

Sam never recovered fully from the memories of Mystery Spot, and sometimes he woke up with the ugly sense of Deja Vu clawing up his throat and he would puke out the blood from the night earlier into the toilet. But no music played mockingly, and there was no Dean to dance to it, and sometimes Sam wished more than anything that he was back in that twisted, awful world, where when Dean died, they came back together.

But he had no such respite.

Sometimes, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the Trickster. He was too far gone, by that point of course, for it to be real, as least as far as he was concerned. In his head he would laugh and carry out his bitter conversations regardless.

 _Are you glad of your lessons?_ He would chide, _I’ve learned everything you wanted me to._

_Are you happy now?_

But it was always a whisper at the edge of his sight, and then Ruby would call him to pay attention, and he had no time for pagan tricksters when the oldest demon was his hunt.

And he tried to forget that Dean would become a demon, too. And when his eyes flicked black for a just a moment in his own reflection facing a mirror in the cold, impartial white of a bathroom, his only solace was that they would be monsters together.

 

* * *

_**My heart will be blacker than your eyes when I'm through with you** _

* * *

 

_forever._

 

* * *

_**And I said, this life ain't no love song while I marched on blindly** _

_**And my knuckles dragged across the walls** _

* * *

 

Dean was an efficient student to Alaister. He knew what pain was, and how to shape it, and mold it, and beat it into a form useful to him. He was a listener, a follower, trained into the soldier his father had made him to be.

He would take orders, he would follow instructions, he would please.

But Dean had no intentions to please Alaistair, merely the urges to protect himself. He fell back on the routine, achingly familiar, reminiscent of his childhood when his father had beaten him when he didn’t listen, except this time, there was no anger to his inflictor, only perverted joy. So Dean did what he was told.

His consolation was that no matter what, most of the people who came into his hands deserved to be here.

Just like he did.  

 

* * *

_**And the birds up there mock me and the scenery's turned wicked** _

_**And your name is trapped beneath my tongue** _

* * *

 

Sometimes, doors opened up from the maw of Hell to Earth, bridging the two worlds like fire to oil. Dean couldn’t leave, of course he couldn’t, just like no one else watching could.

But he always felt it, just like everyone else felt it, he didn’t have hair on the back of his neck anymore - that was just a memory his soul couldn’t let go of, he was just metaphysical energy compressed into an idea of pain and shapes, but it would prick, and he would hear the rushing of blood he didn’t have in ears he no longer needed and he’d pause, just like all of the grunts around him would pause, like the pain chained up would stare, and they’d watch the hole open up, the sunlight, sometimes the stars, the clouds filtering through, like some cruel show of what they’d given up, and then it was gone.

And every time, all Dean could think when he felt the world above was -

_Sam_

And sometimes he wondered if he imagined his own name slipping through the hole, beckoning him back.

 

* * *

_**All of the roads are one now, each choice is the same** _

* * *

 

Sam did not care what demons he killed, so long as one day Lilith would be on the same list.

Names meant nothing to him, at least every name that did not belong to Dean and did not belong to Lilith. Some he bothered to remember, out of importance to reaching fulfillment to those ends - Bobby and Ruby, chiefly, although one he had not seen in a long while, and the other he spent too much of his energy with.

But at the end of the road was _Lilith_ because she had killed **_Dean_** and if he needed to avoid Bobby to protect him and let Ruby live to teach him, he would.

Because no matter what he did, he only had one choice, because he only had one choice, because there would only be once choice.

He had no purpose but one.

Kill Lilith.

 

* * *

_**All the roads, they are one now, each choice is the same** _

* * *

 

Dean cut what was placed in front of him, because he had to, because he was told to, because it deserved to be cut.

There had come a point where his path had derailed and fallen fully and utterly into ruin. In the desecration of his blade he found not solace but a break from his own agonies, even though for every soul he unmade, so in turn did he unmake himself.

But likely, even if he had known consciously, he wouldn’t have cared. Because the moment he’d taken the knife, his destination was assured.

There was only what he was doing now, and there would only ever be what he’d become, and no choice led anywhere else.

And nothing he did would change that.

And perhaps he did not believe it should.  

 

* * *

_**I won't show my hands now, I know this ain't a game** _

_**All the roads, they are one now, each choice is…** _

* * *

 

So Sam learned how to destroy souls as Dean learned how to unmake them, and they headed towards each other but farther from themselves, to places that made them wonder if their brother would recognize the monster each had become.

And When Sam finally got tired - so tired - of Ruby wasting his time and his energy by speaking in a body she’d borrowed without a care, he gutted her too. He didn’t drink her blood this time, though, because he’d found in himself almost enough hatred to rival that of Lilith’s. In a way, she hadn’t deserved it, because she had loved him most of all, but he wouldn’t have known and he wouldn’t have cared.

Hers was not a name that mattered to him.

Everyone knew what he was going to do but no one knew how.

He had been announced as their boy king, and now he took the title and turned it on them. He'd spill their blood and use it against them, a monster made of light, or perhaps a hero made of darkness.

A hero made of blood. 

 

* * *

_**Take a step, take another step, take another step, not a care for where they fall** _

_**You burned me, yeah you've burned me, yeah you've burned me now one too many times** _

* * *

 

Finally, one day Dean will not take what Hell has to give. He does not want it, will never want it, because he is afraid of losing in himself what loved Sam above all else, and no matter how he has been _bent_ he refuses to be _broken_.

So when a hole opens up above, calling not just to him, but to all around him, he decides he will not let the fire catch him on the way out and presses his blade into Alastair’s back - what cannot kill, will only hurt - and flies toward freedom.

For one exhilarating moment, he knows he is doomed to miss, to be dragged down, tortured forever more.

But this time, he knows he will not be bound by shackles made from the jaws of hell hounds, and he will not be at the mercy of Alastair, nor will he be merciful.

Because he had only been taught the opposite of mercy at Alastair's hands, and he intended to fully return the favor.

But then fingers he is only imagining touch the tip of light.

It burns, but like hot water over a tired body or antiseptic on a cut, not like Hell but like a balm to it.

And he hears one furious scream amongst the broken ones below before the hole closes and he is awash in light.

 

* * *

_**My thoughts are the cold kind, I've got storm clouds that are brewing behind my eyes** _

* * *

 

Sam has taken on an entire bar’s worth of demons when it happens.

At first a few had fled, his name now notorious, a bane, a curse, a warning.

But his facade of power slipped - too many of them, all at once. He stumbled as one thrashed under his pull.

He suddenly realized in that moment that if he died, Lilith would live.

And that was unacceptable.

One grabs his arm from behind and before he can retaliate, his (what had once been Ruby’s) blade is pulled from where he’d tucked it out of sight in his belt, under his shirt, and shoved unceremoniously into the demon’s throat.

A man with a mischievously dark glint in his eye grins and then twists it as he pulls it out.

No, a Demon. The glint is not a trick of the light. Sam can smell it on him. Fresh, not rotten like all the other bags of smoke around him. He pulls up his reservoirs. He will faint at the end but he will not run and he will not let any survivors go.

He will not show kindness to monsters.

The other demons advance, one calling out, “What the Hell you think you’re doing, greenhorn? _**That’s Sam Winchester!**_ ”

Before Sam can say anything, the man grins, wild and full of rage. Sam can feel electricity on the hair of his arms, “And you know who I am?” He asks gleefully, throwing the knife with the grace of a hunter so that it soundly thrusts into the demon’s skull before he can answer.

“No,” Hisses the barkeep, her face contorting, “No, it was just a _rumor_! No one escapes Alastair unscathed!” She is backing away now, dropping the metal bat she’d donned when Sam had walked in.

But he’d promised no survivors.

Sam fists an outreaching hand and she spasms under his rage, the dense knot that was eating him inside out but also the only reason he was standing. Ruby’s instructions echoed in his head, unwanted or no, “ _give in, say yes, it’s always been so simple, don’t let it consume you, Sam, let it **become** you._ ”

“I didn’t escape unscathed.” The man leers as he flicks a wrist and sends another demon getting too close into an adjacent wall. His eyes flick black as he grins, answer enough that the version of him that is known was not a demon.

“Who the hell is he?” Mutters another demon under it’s breath to it’s former drinking companions. Even choking on the smoking remains of her soul, the demon raises one shaking finger towards the man and spits out, “De…an…Winche-“

But like a spell, Sam feels a rush into his blood, his senses sharpening as he feels power flooding his veins, because she’d spoken the only name that mattered. The only name that ever truly mattered. Her neck snaps as her soul suddenly burns from within, crushed by the influx of pressure from Sam.

The others have no chance to react as their souls are all simultaneously combusted.

As Sam faints, he catches the man’s worried face as he bends over Sam, frowning.

His eyes are black.

 

* * *

 

_**And my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I'm through with you.** _

* * *

 

Dean won’t let Sam drink blood. It’s only been three months but Sam finds he’s become addicted, almost, dealing with cravings he hadn’t realized he had. Dean worries, is constantly asking if he’s okay.

Okay.

Okay.

Sam is okay because Dean is here, with him, and he’s darker and crueler, and his body is not his own (for now), but he still smiles at Sam when he thinks Sam can’t see it, and he nags Sam about the state of the Impala when he sees her, and he still plays the music too loud when Sam is trying to sleep and they’re on the road.

They go back to Bobby. Dean stays behind so that Sam can “prepare” Bobby, not to kill but to welcome, and The way Bobby demands Sam prove it is simple and stupid and effective.

Bobby pulls out long range binoculars as Sam dials one of the many cell phones in the glove compartment.

“Dean, you there? You can’t come in because Bobby has the place warded against demons. But he’s here. He just has a couple of questions.”

They watch him as they speak, see his face scrunching as he frowns, as he bites the insides of his cheeks, fidgets in his anxiety, because Bobby wants Sam to test him when he doesn’t know they can see him, and Bobby is convinced most when he tells Dean to screw off or do him a favor and take a bullet to the brain so Bobby won’t have to waste the ammo.

“Okay, Bobby.” Dean says, head bowed, tears on his voice, just barely shaky, “Well, I gotta take Sam with me, but I’ll stay outta your way. S’the best I can do. You seen how Sam gets without me.”

He hangs up the phone, covers his face as he fights tears demons aren’t supposed to give.

Bobby gives in, then, runs from the great big lonely house, out to the car, “ _Give me a damn hug ya idjit. Like I’d ever want ta get rid of you_.”

And everyone gets watery eyed, and everyone forgets that Bobby has already known, always known, that if he had to choose between killing someone he loved after they became a monster and not doing it, the picture of his wife is still on the mantelpiece, right next to Dean’s.

And he doesn't make the same mistake twice.

 

* * *

_**My heart will be blacker than your eyes when I'm through with you.** _

* * *

 

They raise Dean’s body, recuperate and plan, Dean learning new powers, Sam recovering from his old ones.

Sam learns to ignore the hunger, and Dean learns to kill it. He discovers the ability to destroy demons as Sam relearns the many facets of humanity. But he never lets Dean stray too far from the path, and Dean never lets him give in to the urge.

And when they hunt Lilith down for revenge, her scream of rage is not from death but because somehow, irrevocably, Sam is not the one who slides a knife into her gut, and no seal is broken and no god or father of hers is freed.

Bobby jerks the knife out with a grunt as the child’s corpse drops, angry and unamused because he had two sons of his own and children should be protected, not killed.

“What in the hell made her so damn pissed? I’m the one with blood all over my new jacket.” Bobby grumbles as he wipes the blade.

Dean dusts himself off as he helps Sam up, who had been thrown into one of the pews by a now dead minion, courtesy of one older brother, “Dunno. Probably annoyed some old man got one over on her.” Dean chuckles.

“Ay, watch it, ya idjit. I can still whip your ass to Hell and back.” Bobby says good-naturedly.

They never learn of Apocalypse that suddenly and immediately wasn’t.

No matter the fact that for eons, it had been known, and then foretold, and then written. No matter that it was decided before word had come into being, before life, before thought.

Because no choice was the same and no road was decided. There was free will and then what resulted of it.

Chuck Shurley smiled to himself as he sat back in his seat, satisfied with the final installment of Supernatural.

 


End file.
